Discomfort
by Starzki
Summary: Miroku and Sango in a very, very, very tight spot. MirSan. Canon. COMPLETE
1. In Position Imposition

Author's Note 1: Let me start off by saying that I know for a fact that this story has been done many, _many_ times before. In fact, it has been done so spectacularly well in Personification of Fluff's "Landslide," my favorite one-shot of hers, that no other author should even attempt a retread. But I'm doing it anyway. Mine is a _little_ different. For one thing, it's not so fluffy. Second, the tight spot is a _lot_ tighter. In fact, I would say this story was more influenced by Stephen King's _Gerald's Game_ than any of the other "tight spot" fics out there. (I seem to mention him a lot in my AN's, but _GG_ is my favorite book of his. Let me just say of it that if I ever had any spark of interest in bondage games, that book effectively extinguished it, stamped it out, and salted the earth from which any further curiosity about it could come. But I digress.) I wonder what it says about me that I go back to do what's been done again and again. Sometimes I worry. But who cares, so long as I'm at least entertaining myself. :)

* * *

Discomfort 

By Starzki

Chapter 1: In Position Imposition

(grrr)

Miroku and Sango's positions wouldn't have appeared all that uncomfortable to the casual observer, had there been anyone around to casually observe them.

Which there wasn't.

It would have been nearly impossible to see the pair underneath their imprisoning blanket of vegetation, anyway.

But, _had_ this hypothetical casual observer been able to see them, he or she might have even thought that the two looked rather cozy.

But this hypothetical casual observer, not hypothetically having the necessary empathetic abilities to actually _feel_ what they were feeling, would have been wrong, anyway. The two, even unconscious, were, in fact, very uncomfortable.

Miroku had landed on his back and Sango had landed on top of him as the serpentine vines, animated by the cruel magic of the forest witch they had crossed, had knocked them off of their feet and effectively buried the unconscious duo under a complicated matrix of undergrowth.

Perhaps more should be done to describe the previously possessed plant life that trapped our cozy-_looking_ couple since the casual observer, being purely hypothetical, would be an unreliable source from which to get such information.

Perhaps the hypothetical casual observer should be disregarded entirely, since he or she was only good for describing Miroku and Sango as appearing not at all uncomfortable.

Which, as has already been discussed, was an inaccurate description of them.

Anyway, the forest witch had seen to it that the plants she used to fight her opponents were as unforgiving as possible. None of the vines, roots, branches, or other plants or parts of plants that she used as her weapons had the cushion of leaves or moss or other greenery. She liked to use plants that consisted of solid wood and sharp bark in order to deal out the most injury to her foes. Branches and roots with bends and knots were especially sought by the witch for the reliable damage they could do on the human body. Or in this case, bodies.

Flat on his back on the ground, Miroku _could_ have very possibly been comfortable if not for the tree root that had ripped through his thick robes and was now nestled neatly between the his ribs of his lower right back. His skin was unbroken, but even unconscious, his body clenched and spasmed around the root in an attempt to dislodge it. His normally serene deep breathing was interrupted with hitches in his diaphragm and intercostal muscles as they tried to accommodate the intruding annoyance. Sango's weight on top of him was not helping his breathing at all, either.

The back of his head was slightly elevated by a mound of dirt. If he was awake and could open his eyes, he would be able to see the top on Sango's head as it laid on his chest. Unfortunately, a hard and biting part of a tree or shrub had pinned his head down tightly. He would not be able to so much as nod or give the slightest shake of his head.

Trapped to the right, the left, and from above by the vines, roots, and other ugly undergrowth of the forest, Miroku could not move his shoulders, arms or legs. Only the slightest shifts, mere millimeters, were possible and would ultimately be futile. The monk, if awake, would have the most movement in his fingers and toes. The relative weakness of those digits when compared to the aged strength of the forest growth would do nothing to help either Sango or himself from that predicament.

As uncomfortable as Miroku was, Sango was infinitely worse off. Miroku had landed on his back, legs straight and relaxed as they stretched out. Sango, even unconscious felt twisted and mangled by the encounter with the forest witch.

True, she had been slightly cushioned in the fall by landing partly on Miroku, but the tangle of vegetation had caught a few of her limbs before becoming the unmovable bars of their unique prison.

Sango's head was positioned squarely on Miroku's chest. Her right ear pressed into the spot directly over his heart. Roots and vines pressed into her head and neck would keep her head in this exact place, allowing for no movement away from Miroku. Awake, she would only be allowed the smallest twitches downward, into the monk.

Although trapped and if conscious, Sango would barely complain about the position of her head in comparison to the rest of her. Her new pillow was soft and very warm. Likewise, she would not, if she weren't knocked out, complain about the position of her right leg. It had fallen straight along the outside of Miroku's left leg and was pleasantly relaxed in her head-trauma-induced stupor.

Unfortunately, the rest of Sango was twisted and stretched to the very limits of her flexibility. The animated vines and roots had encircled her left leg and pulled it back and away from the rest of her body. While her hips lay flat, pressed around Miroku's left thigh, her left leg was bent back to a severe angle away from the ground. Furthermore, while the viselike grip of the cemented weeds held her left thigh straight back away from her, more frozen vegetation twisted her knee to bring up her shin and leg to point toward her head and away, to her left. The effect was that while some roots and branches pinned most of her flat atop of the monk, others seemingly were trying to twist her left leg off at either the hip or knee. She had been at the point just before pain when the plants had stopped moving.

The suffocating vegetation had trapped Sango's right arm, too. Like her left leg, her arm was twisted out and behind her at the shoulder. Her arm was extended straight at the elbow. In her fall, as her right arm had flailed in order to attempt the last catch of the hiraikotsu, her body had fallen forward, pulled by Miroku in his attempt to shield her from the onslaught. Her straight arm was at the midpoint between straight up and straight out from her shoulder, bent up and behind her.

Sango's left arm had drawn itself around Miroku as he had grabbed her. Trapped underneath his body, just under his right flank, Sango's hand had twisted, her palm pressed into the ground by Miroku, who was, in turn, being pressed by her. If she had been conscious, Sango would have been able to feel the folds and weave of Miroku's robes pressed into the back of her hand. But, to describe her state of awareness one last time, she wasn't awake to be cognizant of the monk's robes or anything else around her.

Miroku, however, _was_ beginning to wake. The first thing he was aware of was the great, ugly root burrowing into his back. Wincing at the pain, he tried to stir and found that he could not. Dizzying memories of his last seconds of consciousness came back to him and his eyes shot open in alarm. His first concern was for Sango. Taking stock of his surroundings, he was immediately aware of the unusual warmth pressed into his chest and along his torso, down his left leg. Straining his eyes downward and peering through the filtered forest light and shadows created by the moved and oppressive plant life, he saw the top of Sango's head and an abbreviated view of her brow, eyes, nose, mouth and chin.

The steady rhythm of her breathing against the left part of his abdomen assured him that she was still alive. He didn't know if she was injured.

"Sango," he whispered, trying to shift and rouse her. Although the muscles in his body contracted painfully and shuddered with effort, his movements did not sway even the wisp of hair that played along the bridge of her nose.

"Sango," he said, louder. The demon hunter did not stir at his words. Miroku felt himself begin to panic. He wanted to touch her face and get her to wake up. His right arm seemed within inches of being able to accomplish this feat. While Miroku's right bicep laid along the ground and at a right angle to the rest of his body, his elbow was fully bent, his right hand tucked up nearly under his armpit, the fingers of his right hand extended down the wall of his chest. There was slight movement allowed of his right hand and wrist by the plants in a small space under the unusual blanket that confined him. However, attempts to reach Sango's face were thwarted by the prayer beads that were snagged on an inconvenient knot in the root holding down his wrist.

"Sango!" Miroku tried for a third time, increasing the volume of his voice. This tactic seemed to work. Miroku felt the tiniest contractions of muscle movement against his length as Sango struggled to pull herself into consciousness.

"Houshi-sama?" she asked groggily.

"Are you okay, Sango?" Miroku questioned with concern in his voice.

"My leg…"

"What's wrong?"

"It's okay, I think. I'm just uncomfortable. The forest witch?"

"She must have gotten away," Miroku answered.

Sango grunted in exasperation. She strained and tried to move or shift without any success.

"How about you? Are you okay, Houshi-sama?"

"Yes, for the most part."

"Houshi-sama?"

"Yes, Sango?"

"Where is your hand?"

"Right here by my side."

"I mean your _other_ hand," she seethed at him, angry gravel in her voice.

It appeared that when he grabbed Sango near to help her fight off the onslaught of possessed plants, he had inadvertently grabbed his favorite part of her. And now his hand was pinned unmercifully to her rump by the matrix of iron-like vegetation. He couldn't move it away no matter how hard he tried.

TO BE CONTINUED

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AN 2: Well, I guess that's that in terms of the set up for the rest of the story. I promised myself that I would never do another multi-chapter fic unless I had written the whole thing out. Now I'm even lying to myself. But the whole story is planned out, at least. But I can't make any promises about the regularity of updates. I'll get to them when I can. 

The perspective in this chapter was a little wonky, but terrific fun to write. It'll be more normal next chapter. Thoughts? Reactions? Suggestions? Anyone?


	2. In Deep

Author's note 1: Hello all. Sorry about the wait. My muse up and died on me. I've been doing CPR and managed to get this chapter out of her. We'll have to see if she comes around or not.

Anyway, since there seemed to be a little confusion about their positions (and it will be important later), I'll try and explain a little about how Miroku and Sango are:

Miroku is on his back, flat. One arm is on Sango's rear end (I'm sure there was no confusion about that) and the other is straight out, 90 degrees along the ground, but his elbow is bent completely so that his hand is nearly under his armpit.

Sango is on her stomach on Miroku. She is facing to her left with her right ear on Miroku's chest. Her left hand is under him, palm to the ground. The other arm is up and behind her, like she was frozen while throwing a baseball. Her left leg is rearing back, like she was going to kick a soccer ball (sports analogies were the best I could do) when the vines caught the leg and bent it up and back even more. Her right leg is straight and along the ground.

If there is still confusion, I'm sorry. I tried. Anyway, on with the show.

* * *

Discomfort 

By Starzki

Chapter Two: In Deep

(grr)

Miroku's mouth dropped open in shock. Then, he grinned in spite of himself. He smiled for the obvious reason: He _really_ had not meant to grab Sango's rear. It must have been habit or some such instinctive reaction. She had no reason to be angry with him, really.

Not that that would stop her.

But he couldn't help a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity had helped him into the situation he was in and for the fact that, in their current positions, Sango couldn't see the grin plastered across his face.

He also smiled at himself. In the excitement of the fight, the unconsciousness of the head trauma, and the panic at the awakening, he hadn't even realized that he was holding Sango in such an intimate way. He had needed Sango to point out the position of his hand. He almost, _almost_ regretted that he had woken her up so quickly.

"Houshi-sama," Sango growled at him, voice coated with warning.

"Let me assure you, it was entirely unintentional, Sango," Miroku promised, hoping his word would go further with her than it usually did.

"Well, _intentionally_, get your hand off of my butt!" she growled back at him through her clenched teeth.

Miroku was sure that he and all other sentient life in the vicinity heard the unspoken vows of death and dismemberment that Sango mentally screamed at him if he did not heed her request.

Miroku stopped smiling.

Although neither of them could see it, the branch that held down Miroku's left hand and arm was nearly six inches in diameter, comparatively thick next to the vines and roots the forest witch preferred. The branch pressed evenly against the back of his hand from his knuckles to his wrist. A broken and pointed offshoot to the branch, shorn nearly even with the rest of the wood, yet not nearly flush enough to suit Miroku (and, in turn, Sango), did its best to impale itself between the bones of his forearm and wrist.

Miroku flexed his fingers and tried to move his hand up and away from the demon hunter's bottom, but was immediately stopped by the offensive, molesting branch. Instead, he tried to press down, hoping for a little give in Sango's body to help him ease his hand out from under the plant life that pinned his hand. He felt his palm mold to the delightful curve under the heavy cloth armor she wore into battle. Unfortunately, the give was not great enough, nor was there enough room between other branches and vines to move his left arm or hand in any direction away from her.

His movements abraded his flesh against the bark and other sharp features of the restraining vegetation. The offshoot boring into the back of his forearm worked its way into a nerve and made the fingertips of his middle and ring finger tingle coldly. There was just no way his hand was going to _not_ be in contact with Sango's derriere.

Despite the monk's most valiant efforts to remove his hand from Sango's bottom, he failed. And from Sango's perspective, he not only failed in not taking his hand off of her, but also managed to succeed in rubbing her butt in an infuriatingly familiar manner.

Sango couldn't remember a time when she had been angrier with Miroku. She felt so vulnerable. It was bad enough that she was trapped and effectively paralyzed by the forest plants, but the fact that her co-hostage had managed to take advantage of her in a way that he knew, he _knew_, she hated made her nearly sick with rage.

Her first instinct as a fighter was always (and would probably always be) to strike back. People did not respect fighters who did nothing to defend themselves and she would be damned before she lost Miroku's respect.

The fingertips of her left hand scored the tiniest of indentations in the ground as they attempted to curl themselves into a fist. Her right hand clenched tightly around the branch that had winded itself around her wrist and palm as it suspended her arm up and back. It was impossible to move, to hit, to strike back.

Sango's next thought was so childish that she was appalled that she almost went through with it. With her arms and legs useless and still burning with the desire to hurt the monk for his wandering hand, she thought she would try and bite him. She went so far as to open her mouth and try and turn her mouth towards his chest. However, even if the unmoving plants had not prevented her from turning her head enough to bite him, she would have changed her mind. First of all, it was a juvenile reaction, a cheap shot, and she was embarrassed that, even for a second, she considered sinking so low. Second of all, she was slightly afraid that he might like it.

Winning a fight becomes very tricky when one's opponent is a pervert.

Sango's hesitation gave her a moment of clarity within her blinding fury. It wasn't Miroku that was her opponent, truly. It was the forest witch. It was _her_ fault they were in this position. Unfortunately, the forest witch was gone. She had trapped the two in a compromising and uncomfortable situation and fled, leaving them to die of starvation, thirst, or embarrassment.

"Sorry, Sango," Miroku said. He did sound sorry, which only made Sango angrier with him. He was the one who was there and, as irrational as it was, Sango couldn't help but place most of the blame on him for their situation.

_He_ was the one who thought they should split up from Inuyasha and the others for a few days to seek out the witch rumored to have jewel shards. _He_ was the one who had been taken in by the witch's beauty and hesitated to use his oh-so-effective wind tunnel. _He_ was the one who grabbed her to him as the vines overtook her resulting in her body being a foot ahead of her left leg and right arm, twisting her almost painfully. And _he_ was the one with his hand on her rear and probably grinning like a fool and only pretending he was sorry.

"Oh, you'll be sorry, Houshi-sama. Just wait until we get out of here," Sango promised.

Miroku cleared his throat and decided to change the subject. "Speaking of getting out of here: Do you have any ideas?"

Sango considered their positions. "Do you have any movement at all?" she asked.

Miroku struggled a bit. She could feel his straining muscles work beneath her. She tried to move as well, searching for any give, any kind of space to work in some leverage to allow them to free themselves.

They struggled and pulled and pushed against the vegetation and against one another. Finally, in an effort to find more purchase against the ground to push herself up, Sango pressed her left shoulder into Miroku's ribcage as she tried to arch her back to take some pressure off of her left hip. Miroku let out a harsh gasp and Sango could hear his heart rate double beneath her ear.

"What's wrong?" she asked immediately.

Miroku gave a few quick pants, trying to control the pain of the root burrowing into his back. His eyes squeezed shut and he tried to picture pleasant things, soft things. Like pillows or cushions.

Or women's bottoms.

Oh, yes. It was that thought that was successful in calming him down, enabling him to ignore the shooting pains radiating through his lung and the muscles of his back. And they were so much easier to picture with his hand on the nicest rear end he had ever encountered.

"Houshi-sama?" Sango tried again.

"I'm okay, Sango," Miroku replied, glad that Sango was not telepathic. It was taking all of his will power not to squeeze the wonderful flesh in his left hand that had help bring him out of the suffocating pain.

"What happened?"

"I landed on a root. It's digging into my back. I'm okay now."

Sango was horrified. True, she had wanted to hurt him earlier. But to feel the fear in his heart as it thrummed against her cheek had scared her. "I'm so sorry," she responded guiltily.

"I'm fine. Really."

"Okay. But how are we going to get out of here?"

Miroku furrowed his brow in concentration, glad that he was able to make at least _some_ of the muscles in his body do his bidding. "I don't know," he finally admitted. "I guess we'll have to wait."

"Wait for what? Only that witch knows where we are. Inuyasha and the others don't know where we are and won't be expecting us for another day, at least."

"I know. Maybe the plants holding us will begin to relax and we'll be released. Maybe Inuyasha and the others will find the witch and she'll tell them about us. Maybe someone will come along to help us."

"That's a lot of 'maybes,' Houshi-sama."

"I know. But what else can we do but wait?"

"I don't know," Sango said, still annoyed. Then she sighed in resignation. "Just be glad I peed right before all this happened."

Miroku chuffed a laugh that vibrated through Sango. She was still too miffed at her position to admit to anyone that it felt kind of nice to feel the monk laugh. And he was being so patient and calm, which, in turn, calmed her. Despite the fact she hated feeling so weak and powerless, so enclosed, she had yet to panicked once. The thought had not even crossed her mind. She was definitely uncomfortable, let there be no confusion, but without Miroku there, even with his tragically placed hand, she would have been beside herself with fright and frustration.

Maybe it was the steady heartbeat underneath her that helped to soothe her. For a few minutes, she completely lost herself in the sounds of Miroku's chest. As much as she could ignore it when she wanted to, the sounds of his heart and breathing were surprisingly loud. The machinations of his respiration and circulation sounded dark and complex. It sounded dry and fluid and wet and brittle all at the same time. Most of all, his pounding heart sounded reliable and rhythmic as she rose and fell with each slow and steady breath. Arm and leg twisting notwithstanding, it was kind of nice.

Not that she would admit it.

Miroku, for his part, would have no problem admitting he didn't mind his position, pain and all. At least to himself. Never out loud. He would definitely prefer dying of starvation, trapped under a pile of branches, than endure any punishment Sango would mete out to him if she ever heard he didn't mind their situation in even the smallest way.

This wasn't the worst predicament he'd been in. The whole in-the-moth-cocoon-with-Inuyasha-turning-into-a-demon-thing had been far more precarious. Sango was warm and soft, keeping the cool evening air from chilling him. And she wasn't snarling and foaming at the mouth. Anymore, anyway. And she smelled much better than Inuyasha. It was kind of nice.

Miroku was smiling softly down at her and thinking of how much worse this could have been when he began to see and feel her start to fidget. First, Sango wrinkled her nose. Then she blew a puff of air upward, blowing her bangs away from her forehead for a moment before they resettled. She wrinkled her nose a few more times before she fell still and tried to force herself to relax.

After a few seconds, she clenched her teeth and started working her shoulders, trying to squeeze a few more millimeters of movement out of her position without success. Then, Miroku could feel various muscles clench and relax as she struggled with her own body. Sango's right heel kicked at Miroku's left foot a few times.

"Something wrong Sango?" Miroku asked the squirming woman.

Sango grunted and whined almost piteously. Miroku was surprised and a little concerned. "I think I have a problem, Houshi-sama," she finally answered.

"What's the matter?"

"My nose itches."

TO BE CONTINUED

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A/N 2: Again, sorry about the wait. I seem to have discovered a social life and it's cutting into my fantasy life. My writing is definitely suffering. To those who reviewed: 

_Blood Red Raven_, _IgnorantWisdom_,_ AddictedtoInuyashafics_, _Ray_, _animeluvur_, _YuniX-2_, _silverjazz_, and _Sangonesan_: Thanks so much for your nice reviews. They make me try to at least try and finish this fic.

_Iggy04_: You know, I don't know how _anyone_ can write MirSan without fluff. They _are_ fluff. It's unavoidable. This just won't be PoF's "Landslide." Damn it. :(

_Aamalie_: First of all, thanks for letting me know you liked this. Second of all, about boys (and I say this with a huge crush on a guy I play soccer with): They suck. Always have, always will. And it's nothing but a source of endless consternation for me that I'm so attracted to them. The only advice I have is 1) Know yourself. 2) Trust yourself. 3) Just have fun. You've got plenty of years ahead of you to be serious about dating. It really should be just about having fun with another person. At least, that's what I think. But I refuse to get serious about anything outside of work, so what do I know? Lastly, I believe I was promised hot tubs a while ago. I know, hiatus. I'm just saying don't think I've forgotten.

_Miroku's wife_: I'm glad that you're around! And I'm excited about chapter three of "Tocandote." Let me know when it's up.

_Fred the Mutant Pickle_: I think that was my favorite character, too. I've decided that he or she will be making another appearance later on.

_HMPrune_: The biggest pain was figuring how to get them in and out of that situation. So I figured that I would just skip how they got in. And I refused to even start writing this until I knew how to get them out in a way that wasn't completely stupid. My poor brain struggled with that one, let me tell you.

_Fantastical Queen_: "Prince and the Pauper" is one I _haven't_ read. I've seen the Mickey Mouse movie, though (which probably doesn't count).

_Scribe Figaro_: (blush). The fact that I know you're reading this has made me try so much harder to write it well. You're very good at motivating me.


	3. The Best Policy

Author's Note 1: Again, sorry about the wait. I can't blame my muse this time. I blame my schedule. People want me to actually earn my living. Those bastards! Then this chapter turned out to be really long. Then my Internet broke. Anyway, it's up now. I hope it was worth the wait.

_Aamalie_: Actually, my angst/rage about boys is more from my job than any traumatizing first-hand experience. About soccer boys, I just tend not to trust boys who travel around in groups. However, my crush is a wonderful, nice, funny, and good-looking guy (hence the crush), and I will probably _never_ date him. Crushing on and dating the same person tend not to work out for me. And bite your tongue about "Landslide!" I only wish I could write half so well as PoF. Oh, and thanks again for chapter 8 of OA! You rock.

_BabyXBooX143_: Perfect grammar? (Laughs hysterically) I wince when I read these stories again and catch things I didn't before. But, I'm glad they can be as invisible to other people as they are to me when I go over them for the 10th time.

_Fantastical Queen_: I really never have characters outwardly professing love. I have issues with saying "I love you," so that tends to get translated to my stories.

_Fred the Mutant Pickle_: Damn! I should really stop thinking I'm so original. I guess everything has been done. (Shrug)

_animeluvur_: Thank you for my song. :) (Backs away slowly.)

_Iggy04_: Whoa! I don't think Miroku is _that_ stoic. The root isn't _through_ Miroku! He just kind of landed on top of it. It went through his robes, but not his skin. If it were to go through him, it would probably more endanger Sango's left shoulder or arm than her head. No, I think if the root had speared Miroku, he wouldn't be so calm as he was.

_lodz_: (Gasp!) You're crazy!

_Lady Sango77_: I came up with the idea while snuggling with my dog. He's an 85-pound Labrador retriever and he thinks he's a lap dog. He also makes a great pillow.

_Sexysaxist_: No, my muse came around. Now she's mad that I've had to ignore her to get some work done.

_ManaMage_: I'm _trying _to become a hermit! But it's hard to find any kind of reason to say "No, I have to find a way to scratch Sango's nose," when a friend calls up and says, "A bunch of us are going out for drinks. Wanna come?"

And to _silverjazz_, _jaded image_, _Bloody Red Raven_, _Sangonesan_, _YuniX-2_, and _Jessay_: Thank you for your nice reviews. I'm glad that you're enjoying the story so far.

* * *

Discomfort

By Starzki

Chapter 3: The Best Policy

(grrr)

Sango continued to squirm against Miroku, trying in vain to turn her head into the monk's robes to rub her nose on them. The stubborn itch burrowed into the first couple of layers of the skin above her left nostril, near the pert tip of her nose.

Sango's nerve endings, somehow in communication with the itch on her nose began to fire through the rest of her, inciting phantom itches all over her body. First, the area between her shoulder blades began to tingle. Luckily, a branch pressing that exact part of her allowed a scratch as she wriggled against it.

It didn't help much.

The itch just resurfaced behind her right knee before moving on to her scalp to the roof of her mouth, to just above her belly button. Sango felt almost as though tiny spiders were crawling all over her skin, all because of a simple itch on her nose. Everything would be all right if she could just scratch her nose. The passing minutes grew longer as Sango racked her brain to discover a solution, _any_ solution to her problem. She mentally promised her first-born son to whatever, whoever could give her some relief. She would sell her soul.

Sango felt a brief twinge of concern that she might actually go mad with itching before the itch resurfaced at both her right elbow and chin at the same time distracting her from her thoughts of impending insanity.

Miroku was tempted to find the situation funny. The mighty warrior, the mostly stoic and proud fighter, coming apart because of an itch. But it was frightening at the same time. Plus, all of Sango's wiggling, sighing, straining, and mewling was becoming… well… distracting.

Sango resumed trying to blow puffs of air up and across her nose to at least cool the itch and maybe make it forget what it was doing. Miroku joined her and blew a stream of air as hard as he could at her nose. Her bangs rustled and resettled and rustled some more.

"Gah!" exclaimed Sango. "That's just making it worse!" she cried.

"Sorry," apologized Miroku. "Maybe if you try thinking of something else…"

"Shut up, Houshi-sama. You don't get to talk any more," replied Sango testily, frustration taking over her mouth and forming the words in spite of her rational self.

"But…"

"I hate you, I hate you, Ihateyou, I _hate_ you, Houshi-sama," spewed Sango, squealing and beginning to pant.

Miroku blinked, slightly hurt. Well, _that_ was certainly uncalled for. It wasn't _his_ fault that her stupid nose itched. But he did try to understand and didn't take her bilious words too much to heart. He contemplated squeezing her butt cheek in a way that she might find comforting, but then decided that he probably couldn't pull it off and that Sango would, as always, completely misunderstand his intentions. Also, the branch with the offshoot trying to spear his forearm was preventing circulation to his hand, numbing and cooling it. He wasn't sure he would be able to move it very much if he tried.

Sango, for her part, didn't even realize that she was venting at Miroku, on the verge of shouting every obscenity that she knew. All she heard was the rushing blood in her ears and all she saw was a deep brown-red as she wanted nothing more than to just stop everything, take a time out to scratch her nose, after which she would _gladly_ rejoin her situation already in progress with a whole new perspective and attitude.

Unfortunately, taking a time out was not an option she had. But she needed something, anything else other than the itch. Pain was preferable to the inconstant and maddening pulse of the itch on her nose needling its way into her every conscious thought.

In a last ditch effort to take her mind off of her nose, Sango pushed against the branches that held her right arm. She pulled and strained with her hand, bicep, and shoulder against immobile vines. She railed against the immovable timber with every ounce of available strength she could muster.

Finally, a cramp seized her just under her right shoulder blade.

As the muscle spasmed, Sango let out a sharp gasp that was almost relief. The radiating pain refused to abate as the position of her arm did everything to extend and prolong the twitching pain. Sweat tingled at her temples and she had to endure both the cramping pain as her muscle tried to implode, collapse on itself, and the infuriating tenacity of the itch that she still felt. The cramp held on and refused to abate and the seconds ticked by with sadistic slowness. Sango grunted and her body shook with exhaustion as the muscle at last began to tire and relax, having spent all of its available energy.

The sharp pain dulled to an uncomfortable ache that stabbed into her lung.

And her nose still itched.

Sango decided that that had been a very stupid idea.

But maybe if she tried it with her left leg…

Miroku was growing increasingly worried. Sango was going to hurt herself if she kept this up. Well, he was just going to have to step up and figure out a way to help her out and try to scratch her nose for her before she started convulsing with pain and frustration.

His right hand had the most movement and it was so achingly close to her nose that it seemed the obvious appendage to use to try and help her. He thought that there was just enough room between his chest and the roots that were pinning him down to wriggle his fingers in and get to Sango's nose. There was also slight movement possible for his right elbow to bend and allow him some leeway to reach out to her.

The main problem was that the rosary around his right wrist was snagged on an inconvenient knot in one of the branches imprisoning him.

Now, this was quite a nasty little knot. When the forest witch used her powers to animate the plants, she invariably left a little of her scorn and rage for humans behind in the only-slightly dormant in the plants she had so recently possessed. And knots are a little more concentrated in wood fibers and, therefore, had more remaining animosity towards Miroku and Sango than did the rest of the parts of the plants.

In fact, it was this lingering odium within the plants as the forest witch withdrew her powers that made them spontaneously come together and conspire to trap the pair for as long as they could hold out. They weren't sentient exactly; they had just absorbed enough witchcraft to allow them to unite to make life for Miroku and Sango as terrible as possible. They got as far as pinning the duo down before they lost their self-awareness and froze. But the knot in the branch retained enough to hate the monk so that its single-minded obsession was to destroy the stringy/beady thing he wore around his wrist, out of mere spite.

And this nasty little knot found itself fortunate enough to catch a little of the thread between the beads of the rosary and it did everything it could to hold onto it to prolong the demon hunter's and monk's discomfort. The nasty little knot even laughed to itself manically as it did so, enjoying Sango's itchy pain and Miroku's struggles against it.

Apparently, it did not fully comprehend the utter doom for it and everyone if it snapped the thread. While slightly sentient and undeniably evil, this nasty little knot wasn't terribly clever.

Miroku felt the snapping tug of the knot as it clung desperately to the string of his binding rosary. He knew the risks of pulling too hard. He feared them. But Sango was wracking herself with cramps all along her back just to forget the itch. It was torturous to watch and probably much worse to feel. So he decided it was worth the calculated risk to try and scratch it for her.

So, while Miroku was highly aware and making this move for all of the right reasons, it could definitely be argued that in risking so much to just scratch a nose, he was not so much more clever than the knot.

Sango would probably disagree with that assessment if it had been spoken aloud. In that moment, anyway. However, she could not be described as a person completely competent in making that kind of judgment, given her precarious mental state.

A brief and weak tug-of-war ensued between Miroku and the knot. The nasty little knot held onto the string with its own brand of woody determinism. Miroku pulled and yanked and cajoled the knot to let go. He pressed, wiggled, and rocked the rosary to try and free it. The knot held on, still silently laughing manically.

"Nasty little knot," murmured Miroku lowly and through clenched teeth. Sango didn't notice, too caught up in her own troubles to realize the risk he was putting them in.

In the end, they both won. The knot bit loose a few of the thread's fibers, but did not sever the string. And Miroku was awarded with a few more inches of play with his right hand as he escaped the knot to help Sango.

Miroku now had to find a way to squeeze his right hand between the slight space between his chest and the obstructing roots holding the pair down. As his hand pressed into his own pectoral muscle, he realized he was just shy of the space needed to reach Sango. His glove kept snagging on the prickly branches of a small shrub. If he pressed down, he would be pressing himself into the terrible root that was trying its best to shallowly impale him.

He tried anyway. The pain was intense and he gasped.

Sango began to notice what the monk was doing. She could see his fingers inching toward her face. And for the first time she would ever readily admit, she began to hope recklessly that Miroku would succeed in touching her.

"Come on, Houshi-sama," she coaxed. "You can do it. Please try."

"I _am_," said Miroku through clenched teeth.

Sango silently prayed and rooted Miroku on in her mind. She even would have voiced her ebullient mental cheering if the itch hadn't effectively stolen all of the positive words from her vocabulary.

There just wasn't enough room. Miroku only needed a couple more millimeters of space between his chest and the root above it. He was just so close.

"Please," asked Sango plaintively. She sounded almost lost. Miroku decided that if he did nothing else for her for the rest of his life, he would do this, no matter what it took.

Seeing no other option, Miroku coordinated all of his muscles with any power and room to move and shift down and against the wounding root. With all of his might, he pressed with sharp force. His fingers slowly crept even closer to Sango's face as the sharp bark of the root began to slice through the skin of his back, drawing some blood. He struggled and strained and finally felt that last bit of give he needed as the root bore further into his flesh.

He touched her nose.

He scratched.

Sango murmured and sighed with the greatest relief she had ever known. She almost felt like crying. The insanity that resulted from the itch nearly changed to another completely different type of insanity from the sheer happiness of relief. She wanted to reward Miroku in some way. She almost, _almost_ said that it was okay that he was touching her bottom.

But she bit the words back. That stupid monk probably would, as always, misinterpret her words as an invitation to squeeze her cheek whenever he wanted. The pervert.

But she was still so happy with him. "Thank you, Houshi-sama," she said with genuine gratitude in her voice. "I can't say how much I thank you." It was all she could do to keep herself from kissing the finger that so valiantly had scratched her nose.

Miroku, on the other hand, was not doing as well as he had been. In fact, he was doing everything he could to steady his heartbeat and his breathing as the pain from the root's puncture pulsed through his back into the rest of his body.

"So now you don't hate me, Sango?" he asked to take his mind off of the pain.

"Hate you?"

"Well, you said…"

"No, Houshi-sama. I don't hate you at all."

The pain had somewhat destroyed Miroku's characteristic guard, those layers that kept him from asking the questions he didn't want to know the answers to. So he asked, "But you don't like me much, do you?"

"What?" asked Sango, stunned. "Why would you think that?"

"You don't put up with much from me. You're impatient with me."

Sango felt that she owed Miroku an honest answer. She was still kind of riding high from the release of the scratch. "Of course I am," she responded "You have the potential to be such a great man. If I didn't think you were capable of changing for the better, I wouldn't waste my time or energy on you, yelling at you." Miroku felt the temperature around them increase a few degrees and he knew that Sango was blushing madly. It made him want to smile.

He began to forget his pain. He shoved it into a back corner of his mind as he thought about what Sango was saying. "Why would you think I have potential? Most people think I'm a lost cause."

Sango sighed and confessed, "It was one thing, really, that got me to notice. At Naraku's abandoned castle, when we found the graves, you took off your own clothes to help carry their remains from that horrible place. What you did, what you said, really meant a lot to me and I appreciated it."

Sango took another breath before continuing. "In that moment, I was glad to know you. I began to see you as a man with a lot of good and basic decency in him and I just wish you would act on it more often."

As the words passed over Sango's lips and made their way to Miroku's ears, he was overcome with an odd sensation. It was recognizable in that it was how he often felt when either he or Sango were being honest about their feelings. It was a complicated, kind of cramping feeling. It hurt in a way that wasn't painful and felt good in a way that he never wanted to ever experience again. It felt weird. And strangely squishy.

Sango fell silent, waiting for Miroku to say something. However, he was still trying to identify the odd feeling that had just overcome him. His neurons and synapses sang and fired with electricity as he applied his not unintelligent mind to the task. His education and underlying rational inclination led him to utilize the Law of Parsimony in that the simplest answer to a question was, most likely, the _best_ answer.

Now, to be clear, Miroku wasn't actually thinking about the Law of Parsimony or intentionally directing his thought process to find the simplest answer. However, his decidedly male thought process and experience demanded a quick and rational answer for the uncomfortable and unidentifiable feelings coursing through him and latched onto the first thought that occurred to him that made sense. It was actually a thought that was pretty much just below the surface of all of his other thoughts pretty much all of the time.

Therefore, when Miroku felt the steadying vertigo, the loose tightness in his chest and all of the other oxymoronic feelings that confused him as Sango confessed that she didn't really hate him, when she was implying that she kind of liked him and was glad to have him around, he did _not_ think the feeling was because of the sheer complexity of his feelings for _her_. He did not find himself touched and honored that a young woman as strong and beautiful and fantastic as Sango was saying that she found some good in him. He did not worry about the ramifications of falling in love in the midst of their shared quest for vengeance and redemption and the responsibilities for both of them such a love would entail. He did not lament that he did not deserve such a woman as she was growing to be or wonder if he could make himself a man worthy of such trust and devotion. And he did not think a single thought toward scaring Sango away before she fell for him, thus protecting her. These ideas were all too complex and jumbled (and far too accurate) for Miroku to identify with any success.

So, he went with Parsimony, basically because it was a lot faster and didn't make him think too much.

Instead, he identified the feelings as: _I think would like to touch a booty_. _Or maybe a boob_. _Oh, hey! Sango's right here!_

And then he moved his right hand without any thought at all, to try and reach down to pet her bottom.

Luckily for all involved, his hand only moved a few millimeters before meeting another plant obstacle.

But Sango did notice the general direction of his hand and knew exactly what he was thinking. Again, when one is faced with a pervert, one can usually tell what he is thinking. Sango smiled, knowing his attempt to grope her was foiled (and vaguely wondered why he didn't just squeeze with his left hand).

Normally, the realization that he was going to try and molest her would send Sango into a fighting temper, but she was just so thankful to him for the scratch that she couldn't seem to find the energy to correct his behavior.

At least for a little while.

They were still very stuck and all they had was time. And endless discomfort.

The seconds and minutes crept by. Sango was finding it increasingly difficult to remain so still. She was an active, athletic woman. While she did have an enormous store of patience (she never fidgeted when it was time to be still and meditative) and while she wasn't hyperactive, she felt the slow build of frustration as her muscles screamed to move into another position.

As the minutes passed, the cool and windy evening sank into an even colder night. The light happy feeling at the disappearance of the itch on her nose faded as a heavier frustration took its place. Sango could almost picture her muscles solidifying and freezing in this position if she didn't find a way to move them, soon. So she did what any person in her situation would do. She took it out on her completely innocent companion to get her mind off of her discomfort.

"Why do you do that?" she demanded with annoyance.

"Do what?" asked Miroku, who had been frowning to himself at his failure to caress her bottom. He _had_ forgotten about his left hand because it was completely numb because of the cool air and the poor circulation it was receiving.

"Go to grab me any time I'm honest with you and try to be nice?"

"Uh," replied Miroku. He had no response because he didn't know about his brain's addiction to Parsimony. That, and, being male, he forgot every complicated feeling he had after an unsuccessful attempt to identify it, preferring to pretend it just had never existed.

Sango decided to switch tactics. "What's with you and butts, anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you know I don't appreciate it, that it makes me angry and want to hurt you, and you do it anyway. Why?"

Miroku kind of liked this topic of conversation, especially since Sango had no physical recourse against him if he stuck his foot in his mouth. He tried to justify his actions. "I don't know how to explain it other than caressing your rear end is something I like to do."

"I still don't understand. Why?"

"I don't think I can explain that any more than you can explain why you like to eat handfuls of cherries and spit the pits as far as you can."

"Well, because that's fun."

"Well…" goaded Miroku.

"You find groping me fun?"

"Well, yeah, I guess."

"But it makes me so angry. At least I don't hurt anyone."

"Tell that to the cherries."

Sango sighed. "You know what I mean. And why do you single me out so often when I'm the one most likely to bruise you for doing it?"

Miroku decided to be as honest with her as she had been with him. "Because I like you best," he answered simply.

Miroku actually felt her body tense and blush at his words. He liked it. If nothing else, it was helping keep the chilling night air at bay.

Sango was silent for a while before starting, "But…"

Miroku anticipated her question. "Because you're strong and I like that you fight for what you want. Because you expect goodness from me. Because you expect so much from yourself that the rest of us can only try and rise to your example, making us better people."

Sango was speechless and touched. But that was before he continued, "And because you have, _unarguably_, the nicest rear end that I've ever felt."

He had been so close.

Sango felt that she would have melted under the intense focus of Miroku's attention and effusive words. The steady beat of his heart at her ear proved to her that he had not been lying as he coated her with his honeyed phrases. Then he had to go make her all self-conscious, again. He seemed to revel in keeping her off-balance around him.

Now, Sango wasn't all that much better at identifying emotions than Miroku was. Her warrior's mind read any sign of discomfort, self-consciousness, or internal conflict as aggression that needed to be purged. Preferably, to be purged violently.

Damn all of those weeds for their situation. She began to wish that she had just let the whole thing go. She reminded herself how great Miroku had been for scratching her nose. And he was being honest with her, which was good. And he hadn't even attempted to squeeze her butt since she had awoken. No, she decided. Miroku was still on her good side. For now.

It was Sango's turn to clear her throat, deciding to let the subject drop. "So, any new ideas on how to get out of here?" she asked, trying to shift again and take some of the pressure off of her left hip because her back was threatening to cramp up once more.

Miroku groaned at her movement as the root began to slice even deeper into his back because of Sango.

"What's wrong, Houshi-sama?"

"That root… It's just a scratch," he gasped in denial. His lungs felt paralyzed with pain and any inhalation and exhalation seemed impossible. He began to concentrate on just drawing breath.

Sango opened her mouth to respond but began to feel a warm and thick liquid nudge the outside palm of her left hand and spread to cover her pinky finger. She knew instantly that it was blood.

"Houshi-sama," she gasped, "You're bleeding!"

Miroku groaned again in an assenting manner to her accusation, the newly awakened pain forbidding him access to real words.

Then, both Miroku and Sango froze, simultaneously holding their breaths, as an eerie creaking and moaning coming from the imprisoning plants signaled their renewed movement. The blood of the monk had soaked into the root and given the plants and their latent evil tendencies nourishment, reminding them of their unsettled score against Sango and Miroku. The plants were waking back up. And they will still full of the malignancy that the forest witch had imbued them with before she had left. They were going to make this couple of humans more than a little uncomfortable.

TO BE CONTINUED

* * *

A/N 2: I couldn't keep the fluff out. I can't help but think it doesn't fit the whole tone of this story, though. Oh well.

FYI: The Law of Parsimony is also known as Ockham's Razor.

Three chapters down, one to go.


	4. Getting Away

Discomfort

By Starzki

Chapter 4: Getting Away

* * *

(grrrrrr)

Miroku had often meditated to the sound of trees rustling and bending in the wind. The sibilant sounds of the air as it moved gently through the green and aged life of trees was especially soothing and could easily aid him in his loss of purposeful thought. Even the quiet groaning of some trees as they stretched a little beyond their limit was a not unpleasant sound. The movement of nature always sounded right and fitting. It could make a person feel at home even when away from what was known. The sounds these trees and plants were making as they became reanimated were exactly like that.

Except for being totally opposite.

Both Miroku and Sango shuddered at the sounds these trees, these plants made. It went further than simple groaning and gentle swishing. The plants almost moaned with movement and screamed in pain, hissing sharply as bark scraped bark. The sounds put Sango and Miroku's teeth on edge and made their ears squint.

Sango was glad that her left ear was shielded from the frightening noises of the awakening plants. Miroku's heartbeat thudded hard and rhythmically against the side of her face, betraying his fear. Sango's own heart synched up with his, mirroring his terror. Neither of them knew what these vines and branches had planned for them. And judging by their previous actions, pinning them in such an uncomfortable and otherwise compromising position, Miroku and Sango wouldn't put anything past the damned weeds: those sadistic, evil, smothering, woody bastards. The pair simultaneously wished for a well-timed and well-placed forest fire to take care of their prison bars just as soon as they were free from them.

None of the plant life directly touching Miroku and Sango had moved, only the non-contact foliage. The cold, dark night also prevented Miroku from seeing exactly what shape or form these possessed plants, nourished by his own seeping blood, were going to take.

Miroku's imagination began to work and build possible scenarios that he and Sango would have to deal with. Mostly, Miroku imagined that the twining and hissing and creaking plant life as a pit of vampiric snakes descending downward to strike and suck out even more life from their entrapped human prey.

Sango's vision was somewhat obstructed by virtue of not being able to look up into the dark construct of vine-y confinement. However, her imagination grew just as active as Miroku's. She mostly thought that the slithering roots and shrubbery would resemble a bowl of noodles being stirred by a pair of chopsticks. But this was probably because she had missed lunch and was terribly hungry. While her hunger took a lower priority than did the immediate threat to her life by homicidal plants, her unconscious brain couldn't help but provide the culinary vision to help remind her to, if and when she got out, grab a snack. Something starchy, if it was available. But really, anything would do as long as it was food and filled her stomach.

Visions of a descending ball of venomous snakes or bowls of noodles aside, Miroku and Sango could more _feel_ the movement of the plants by the subtle changes in the atmosphere than they could _see_ it in the black darkness of the night. This lack of visual sense created its own, slightly higher, level of terror for them. They would have to confront the unknown. The shifting and sliding plants moved the air around them, creating different pressures, different paths for the cold breeze that was suddenly chilling different parts of their bodies.

"What do we do, Houshi-sama?" whispered Sango, suddenly afraid that the plants might be able to hear and understand them. Which was silly because plants don't have ears. Also, it's incredibly anthro-centric to assume that the plants would understand human language. But in her terrorized state, one can forgive Sango's humanoid-ism.

"I don't know," responded Miroku, biting off a cry as the branch pinning his left wrist suddenly pressed and rotated in a swift jerk, the pointed offshoot shallowly slicing open the back of his forearm.

"Houshi-sama!" hissed Sango before her own voice was stolen by a precise and agonizing pain in her knee as roots holding her foot pressed it to the left while other vines and plants refused to let her thigh follow. The tendons in her knee screamed and she echoed them with a scared yelp in pain.

Miroku knew it was all ending, whether they were prepared for it or not. The smell of Sango's terror (and his own) filled the air with the sour sweat of open pores and bitter bile of panting lungs.

As soon as the plants holding her foot had mercifully stopped trying to twist off her lower right leg, the root under Miroku's back began to slide in a sawing motion, back and forth, under him, crushing and severing more blood vessels in order to further feed its obsessive need for revenge as the forest witch's proxy.

Miroku groaned at the feeling that was not so much pain as it was a nauseating energy radiating through his lower back, causing his lungs to shudder and refuse to move in either inhalation or exhalation. The movement would kill him through suffocation if it kept up.

In her few seconds of reprieve from the pain in her knee (which had only dulled to a slow and persistent throb), Sango could think clearly. She put every thought she had, every ounce of energy, into devising a way out of their situation.

Her mind refused to cooperate with her, preferring to feign blissful ignorance to the situation in its very occurrence and in finding a way out of it.

Knowing that she had only seconds left before the plants would continue to try and dismember her, Sango despaired and rallied her brain to work for her. She clenched her teeth and tried to beat her head against Miroku's chest to jolt her cerebrum into action.

And in doing so, a Sango heard a sound so soft that she almost didn't hear it over Miroku's harried heart and panting breath or the shrieking trees. It was the soft sound of crinkling paper. Miroku's sacred sutras were stored in the folds of his kesa and robes just under her head. He had weapons on him still. It would just be a matter of freeing a hand to reach them.

While trying to wrench her bloodied left hand from under Miroku, she exclaimed over the noise of the moving plants, "Your sutras! We've got to do something to seal their power!"

Even though neither thought it was possible, the branches moved to press them together even more, crushing them and allowing for even less movement. Sango's hand under Miroku was not going to move even a millimeter.

Miroku heard Sango over the pain sparking in his back and also knew there was no way to get to his spiritual weapons. He thought that they might work if they only had a little more room to move. All they needed was a little relief, maybe a little time to think and strategize a way through the labyrinth of vegetation.

That was so not going to happen if the plants had their way. And it was they who were very much in charge and _would_ have their way.

Feeling the stirring resistance of the humans in their grasp, the roots and vines turned mean. Well, meaner. They had the best grip on Sango, so they simultaneously bent her leg and arm, seeing if they couldn't make her hand meet her foot behind her.

Sango screamed, actually _screamed_. Cramps overtook her aching back, arching her spine in an attempt to break it to find some kind of relief. The muscles along her right abdomen also cramped in a counter-balancing maneuver. Pain exploded in the muscles that fought themselves and the pulling plant life. Sango screamed.

Miroku had thought that the mere movements of these plants were the worst things he had ever heard. Wow, was he ever wrong about that. Sango's screaming made him frightened. Beyond frightened. He thought he might actually have to witness Sango's breaking, her being ripped apart, and his whole being rebelled against the thought.

Any fate, hers or his, was preferable to that. Miroku knew he really had only one option left: His kazaana.

He knew that it was entirely likely that he and Sango and everything else around them could be sucked in. He prayed for luck.

The pulsing and moving plants inched Sango's appendages ever closer with cruel slowness. Miroku gave Sango's nose one last scratch and hoped it conveyed all of the apology and comfort for her that he meant for it to have. Then he pressed his hand up into the moving snake bed.

Luck was on his side. He managed to find and wriggle his hand into a moving gap between two branches as they moved up and toward his head. Truthfully, the plants were pleasantly surprised to catch such a great hold of the monk, thinking they might get to divest him of his arm at the same time they would claim the demon slayer's.

Miroku felt his arm extend straight up from his shoulder, perpendicular to the ground. Then it began to move to directly over his head. He did his best to move and twist his hand to face upwards, keeping the wind tunnel as turned away from both him and Sango as much as he could.

Sango had stopped screaming. Miroku stole a glance down at her and saw her face was drawn and gray. Her breaths were coming in short pants. He knew he was doing the right thing. Now if only he could get his rosary off.

Again, luck was on Miroku's side. The nasty little knot was more hell bent than ever to get at Miroku's rosary, to win the battle that it had been too weak to succeed in previously. Cackling in it's own (silent to human ears) timbered manner, the knot directed itself to the monk's wrist, which was held as though offering a salutation to a friend across a crowded room.

Miroku felt the hateful energy of that knot and knew that it was all but over, one way or another. There was a real risk that he would be successful in just pulling in the plants, but that they would also retain their hold on Sango and him and manage to pull them into the void as well.

So with wild hope borne of desperation for freedom, he cried out, "Hang on, Sango!" The nasty little knot scraped up Miroku's forearm and caught the nearly-broken rosary with its fibrous teeth and rejoiced in the snapping of the thread that would be its own undoing. Miroku yelled, "Wind tunnel!"

Sango, through her pain and unawareness of Miroku's intentions, was relieved that he could joke at a time like that. Maybe things weren't so dire if he still could make a jest. It gave her hope and she almost managed a ghost of a smile until she heard the violent winds begin to stir. The realization hit her that that stupid monk had been serious.

"Oh…shit," she breathed and braced herself as well as she could for whatever fate awaited her.

The only entity enjoying itself at that instant was Miroku's wind tunnel. The consummate nudist, the kazaana was only clothed under duress. Free of the binding rosary and unusual glove Miroku wore, the black void enjoyed the feeling of freedom that came with being naked for all of the world to see. Well, to see and then run away frightened and screaming. Ever the exhibitionist, it drew people in to look at it in all of its exposed gorgeousity. It pulled them a little too close, but it figured that it was a fair price to pay for seeing such splendid sight.

The wind tunnel sucked. It sucked in the possessed plants, starting with the nasty little knot. It sucked and pulled and drew everything it could into its gaping maw. It was diarrhea in reverse and it delighted in its consumption, sacrificing the world around it to its own vanity.

The branches and vines now screamed in terror, not knowing this strange magic of the monk. They really could not have been expected to know that such a curse was possible. Even though they were old, around for decades, they were mere newborns in the ways of evil and magic.

So the kazaana caught them a little off guard as they found themselves hurtling toward the void.

The hold on Miroku and Sango lightened, loosened.

Sango was ready. Through the pain, she tore her left leg free of the branches. She brought it down to the ground on the outside of Miroku's right leg and used it to help push herself up a bit to take the weight off of Miroku and her own left hand.

In their last effort to wreak their vengeance, the plants retained their grip on Sango's right wrist, willing to take her into the black hole with them.

Sango gasped as she felt her arm being dragged toward the kazaana and knew the plants would not release her.

Miroku heard her gasp and immediately knew what was happening. It was what he had been most afraid of. He tried to clutch her to him with his left hand. But his fingers, dead from cold and bloodlessness, would not grip her, could not even feel her. Miroku grinded his teeth together and pressed her down into him and knew she was slipping.

As Sango felt her arm stretch upwards toward that cursed vortex she grabbed at anything that could stay her progression long enough to work her plan. She knew she was inches, less than inches away from disappearing when she caught something and held.

It was Miroku's right wrist. She squeezed and ground the small bones of his wrist together in her grip, refusing to let go. Miroku had shut his eyes, afraid that the last thing he would see was Sango disappearing into his wind tunnel. Feeling her hold onto him, he was both relieved and pained. Sango had a grip like a vise and she was definitely not afraid to use her strength against him.

The branch around her wrist had no more hold and kept slithering its way into the kazaana, taking the top few layers of skin from Sango's wrist along with it.

Her hair flying wildly about them amidst the screaming terror of the plant life, Sango found herself able to bring herself to her knees and elbows and unpin her arm from under Miroku. Quickly, she guided her hand into the pocket of his robes and clutched at whatever treasures she could find there.

Her fingers fumbled past the sacred sutras that would only be sucked into the wind tunnel. She finally felt what she had been hoping was there.

He had an extra rosary.

Thank goodness that monk was not so dumb as he let on sometimes.

Sango reached up and wound the rosary around Miroku's wrist, sealing the kazaana. Forced back into the constricting clothing, the wind tunnel pouted and preened, waiting with anticipation for the next opportunity to be in the buff for all the world to see.

When the whooshing of the winds had quieted, Miroku decided it was safe to sneak a peek out of one eyelid. He saw Sango rising to her feet. He saw different parts of plants writhing around like worms cut in half before falling limp. He saw the starry night sky and breathed a sigh of relief.

Sango reached down and helped him to his feet and the pair quickly grabbed their dropped weapons limped away the area, not sure if the plants were playing possum or if they were really dead and frozen. Not that they cared at the moment. They would come back later and make sure. But for the time being, they just wanted away from there.

Once in a clearing with plants no stronger than grass and flower stems, they could relax a little. Sango stretched her back and left leg and delighted in the feeling of blood moving through her moving muscles once again. Miroku flexed his left hand and winced as feeling came painfully to the numb fingers. But he was relieved that the feeling did come back and that there didn't appear to be any serious damage.

Sango tended to Miroku's laceration on his back. They tended to each other's more minor scrapes and bruises.

The subject of Miroku's hand on Sango's rear end for the time they had been pinned together was not brought up.

Not much was said at all. Sango ate some dinner, but Miroku wasn't hungry.

They laid out their bed rolls and tried to sleep.

Miroku was surprised to find that the most comfortable position was flat on his back because it didn't move or tear his deep wound and downward pressure helped keep it closed. He gradually fell asleep.

Sango tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. The night was cold and her back was a mass of exhausted, cramped muscle. She guessed that she would be too sore to move it very much at all the next day if the night did not warm up.

The day had exhausted her, but she felt too keyed up to drift to sleep. She felt like she was missing something. Sango glared over at Miroku, jealous that he could sleep during this cold night.

He looked so warm.

Later, she would claim extreme exhaustion, somnambulism, or temporary insanity, but Sango couldn't stand the cold of that night. She crawled over to him, laid down beside the left side of him, and pillowed her head on his chest, her right ear over his heart as she drifted off to the tune of his steady heartbeat. Her arms clutched his sides and warmed.

Miroku did not wake up. But he did grin happily in his sleep. And his right hand came up and placed itself within scratching distance of her nose. And his left hand reflexively came up and wrapped itself around her waist, drawing her warmth down into him. And later in the night, as his left hand would found its way down to her bottom, a more licentious grin spread across the monk's face.

Their positions would not have appeared all that uncomfortable to the casual observer, had there been anyone around to casually observe them. In fact, this hypothetical casual observer would have thought that the two looked rather cozy.

He or she would have been right.

THE END

Imagine Papa Roach's, "Getting Away with Murder" lyrics here.

* * *

_Aamalie_: I don't think you want my blood. I pollute it with too many unhealthy things. But thanks a lot for all of your very nice reviews. I almost feel like a story or chapter doesn't count until you've reviewed (which you're always like the first one to do). So thanks!

_Fantastical Queen_: (laughing) I usually do one of two things when I'm faced with an "I love you," I can't say back. 1) Pretend I didn't hear it. This works surprisingly well. 2) Say "Thank you!" and give the nicest complement I can come up with, then figure out a way out of the relationship because it's on its way to the graveyard. (It's not that I _don't_ love these people all of the time, I just sometimes feel like I'm _lying_ if I haven't known the person for more than a couple of years.)

_Fred the Mutant Pickle_: You and I love the same imaginary characters! I just had to bring the knot back, too.

_Iggy_: I think Sango was temporarily insane with relief at the scratch when she considered saying it was okay for him to be touching her. And Miroku definitely needed to open that kazaana.

_lodz_: While I can't claim first-hand knowledge on men's thought processes, it has been my experience that they are very… uncomplicated. And everybody loves Parsimony. (See Author's Ramblings below.)

And to _Demon Exterminator Barbie_, _baby boo 143_, _Wave Singer_, _Jessay_, _Rivertam_, _Lady-Sango 77_, _Pyrinsomniac_, and _afan_: Sorry. I'm too worn out to respond individually. But I really thank you for your reviews. I'm glad that you read and that you liked it enough to drop me a line. My main goal is just not to waste nice readers' time with bad writing. Everything else is just frosting.


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